Valkyrian Redemption
by ArcturusWolf
Summary: Honour. Loyalty. Two qualities that Selvaria had adhered to since the day Prince Maximillian had raised her from the bowels of a research laboratory, to his loyal right-hand. The qualities that made her more than just a common foot soldier. But seeing the Gallian soldiers win against the best that she had; it was enough to make her think. Maybe there's more to power.
1. 01 - Purifying Flame

Selvaria Bles.

It was a name that struck fear into the hearts of untold thousands of Gallian soldiers. And perhaps more than a few of her men, too.

And yet here she was, bound in handcuffs in front of a cackling, arrogant, _imbecile_ that called himself a general of the Gallian army. The shame of it! Being caged like a mere bird before leering Gallian bastards.

"...Come to think of it, that promotion to marshal may not be far off!" von Damon laughed, his two guards beside him laughing along with him.

The witch. Was that all that they thought of her?

Both them, and her own men. She smiled bitterly to herself. Only His Grace didn't think of her as a witch, but a valued general. And in a strange twist of fate, the militia group that had given the Imperial army so much trouble - and even defeated her twice - over the past months had also treated her with more respect than the true Gallian army ever had. If only they had surrendered and served her for the glory of His Grace. They would have made wonderful vanguards for the Imperial army.

It was impossible to know just how long she had been held captive, as the former Imperial war room did not have something as simple as a clock upon any of its walls. She gritted her teeth as she watched von Damon lean back in His Grace's throne, as though it were a trophy that he had earned himself in battle. The truth, of course, was that he had _lost_ this very war room six months ago, only for it to be reclaimed by the militia when he could not.

The last order issued by His Grace continued to haunt her. "Use the Final Flame on Our enemy," he had ordered her coldly. It would surely kill her, of course. But to rid the world of Gallian filth in His name? It was...a fitting way to go. A glorious death, even if not in battle.

"General. The crew that you sent with the prisoners...when did they all leave?"

"Well now, let's see...I guess about two hours ago?'

"Excellent. That should be enough time," she spoke.

"For what? You're just a bird in a cage now! A cage from which you will never emerge! Have you forgotten yourself...witch?"

A cold grin crept onto Selvaria's face. Summoning the flames of her Valkyrian blood, she shattered the steel handcuffs on her wrists without effort. The guards on either side of her gasped and drew their rifles, hands shaking in fear and shock.

"You are the one who has forgotten, General,"

Wisps of blue flame gathered about her body, as she had done so many times over the years in His service. But unlike the other times, this would not protect her from wounds.

The rifles either side of her barked five times each. Searing agony pierced her chest and stomach, the bullets shredding flesh and shattering bones. Gasping for breath, she licked the blood off her lips. She would perish after shaping her life-force into an all-encompassing flame. What was a little more pain to her? Her lord had ordered her to perform a task. She could not hold the Gallian militia off on the plains of Naggiar. And she had failed Him yet again. She would not fail him this time – not on his last order, issued to her. The Final Flame would be ignited, with her own blood as the catalyst.

"Lord Maximillian," she whispered. The flames burned ever brighter as she collapsed to the ground, reducing the soldiers beside her to ash, "All glory to you,"

Of those that would hear von Damon's screams, none would survive. That was all that mattered to her.

* * *

><p>Miles away, a Gallian column of men was marching away from the mountain fortress of Ghirlandaio. A vast trail of Imperial soldiers followed closely, each man bound with handcuffs and forced to march alongside them. Cresting over a large hill leading down to the mountain pass beneath, they stopped for a brief respite. At their head was a heavily-armoured tank, far larger than those typical of the lighter Gallian designs. Emblazoned on its side was its name, painted in white.<p>

The _Edelweiss_. A symbol of hope to those in the militia. And as well-engineered as it was, there were simply some things that a heavy vehicle could not handle...

"Welkin, what's the hold-up?" asked a lithe woman to the tank's commander, her long brown hair tied back with a bright red-and-white scarf.

"The tank can't move, Alicia. Something's gotten under it," he replied, scratching his head as he clambered out of the tank, "Squad seven engineers, let's get this tank moving again!"

A chorus of 'yes, sir!' greeted his ears, and Welkin smiled. Six months ago, the militia group had just been brought into commission. All had their separate concerns, and each had their own reservations about working with the others. Now, they were almost a family. A family away from home. It was heart-warming.

"Uh, Welkin, you might want to check this out. It's...I'm not even sure what this is,"

Raising an eyebrow, the young tank commander clambered out of the tank's hatch. The group of engineers stood about the front of the tank, scratching their heads as a pair of them attempted to pry away something from beneath its treads.

It was a smooth, black spike of some sort, made of some unknown crystalline material. The steel crowbars that the crew had tried to break it with merely glanced off its shining surface, some even having been dented by repeated impacts.

"What's this?" Welkin muttered, prodding it with a finger. The crystal was cold to the touch, almost freezing his ungloved hand.

"Some sort of...gemstone?" replied Alicia, who likewise touched the stone tentatively.

At her touch, however, a powerful blast emanated from the crystal. All were thrown backwards with great force by the shockwave, with the quicker engineers quickly throwing themselves to the ground to avoid the worst of the blast. The slower ones were thrown forcefully against the cliffs either side of the mountain pass, where they slumped down, out cold. Even the _Edelweiss_ rolled backwards a good six feet, treads crusted with frost where it touched the crystal.

"Urgh," groaned Welkin, "Wait, that wasn't there before!"

A sphere floated above the spike, bolts of bluish-white energy periodically sparking from its bounds. Frigid winds blew constantly forth from it, lending an unseasonal chill to the scorching heat of the badlands. As he squinted at the centre of the sphere – was that a table and...a _quill and inkpot_, of all things? And..._snow_, falling thick and fast?

"That...doesn't look normal," Alicia said uncertainly, reaching out to test whether or not the image was real. Her eyes widened as her hand touched a falling snowflake, "And it's real!"

"I don't know what to say. Squad, keep moving down the hill! We'll catch up with you in a bit," Welkin yelled to the rest of his squad, "Alicia, I'll need you to watch over me while I investigate this,"

The scout nodded, scanning the horizon with a pair of binoculars, while the rest of the soldiers and prisoners continued marching over the stony crest that they had been climbing for the past ten minutes. Stepping through the portal, Welkin took in a deep breath, his rifle clutched closely to his chest.

Nothing would have prepared him for the sights – and the biting cold – of the world beyond the portal. He shivered violently as he stepped into the near-snowstorm, the frigid winds threatening to blow out the feeble flames of the torch and fireplace in the draughty room that he found himself in. Several rolls of tattered parchment sat beside an ice-covered pile of books. A dusty skeleton sat in the rotting wooden chair before the table, its bleached bones clutching the shaft of a quill. Several bottles full of reddish liquid lay scattered on the floor, a few more blue ones peeking out of a nearby leather bag.

"Welkin?" Alicia called out, "Is everything alright?"

"Yes. I'm not sure where this is, but it doesn't look like anything harmful is out here. I'm coming back,"

A blinding flash of bluish-white light shot out from the direction of the portal, followed by a thunderous blast. Peering through the dust cloud that followed, Welkin's eyes widened as he saw towering wall of cobalt flames rushing towards him from the direction of the Ghirlandaio citadel.

Towards Alicia.

"RUN!" he screamed to nobody in particular, hoping that the rest of his squad would hear.

The flames were too quick for him to run back to the safety of his tank. And Alicia, who he had ordered to stand watch over him – she was right there, dazedly looking at the flames in shock as they surged mercilessly ever closer to both of them.

Reflexively, he grabbed her hand and did the only thing he could. Pulling her through the portal, and hurling both himself and her against the cold stone floor, the woman held close to him as he fell backwards to the ground. He closed his eyes, dreading the intense inferno that surged like an endless torrent through what remained of the portal.

It was after a brief moment that he heard the shattering of what sounded like glass. The stream of flames abruptly halted, leaving only darkness in its wake. As the young tank commander attempted to stand, he heard an agonised whimper coming from his side.

"Alicia?" he called out uncertainly, hoping that nothing had happened to her.

She held out her left arm. The metal plate that served as her armguard glowed red-hot, the smell of burning flesh and cloth still hanging in the air.

"Damn it!" he cried out, frantically digging in his pockets for a knife. Her eyes glistened in tears as she bit down on her right glove to avoid crying out in pain.

"Hold still, child. You are only worsening your injury," a growling voice spoke out behind them, followed by the soft tapping of wood on stone.

Welkin whipped around, his other hand reaching for the pistol in its holster. There stood a bearded man, leaning on a gnarled wooden staff, a grave expression on his heavily scarred face. Snow flecked his white robes and in his long greying hair. There was a strange, sickly-sweet scent about him, and his hands seemed to be covered in numerous stains.

The man stared at Welkin, and then at his pistol.

"I am not here to harm you. If I wanted to, I would have burned you to ash while you were distracted. Now, move aside and allow me to treat her," he said irritably, frowning.

Without asking for further permission, he shoved Welkin roughly aside with the staff in his hand. A stream of frost sprayed out from his free hand onto Alicia's armguard, cooling the superheated metal with a loud hiss. The armguard soon fell away, gently pried loose from its charred cloth backing by the man's worn fingers. Burned skin gave way to raw and reddish flesh, the sight of which caused the man to sigh loudly.

Frost. From a hand. Welkin's jaw dropped, unable to believe what he had just witnessed.

"That does not look very pleasant. Still, you are most fortunate that your pretty face did not take the worst of it, lass,"

She forced a muffled grunt through her teeth, and the man nodded to her reassuringly. He reached out for a red bottle that lay on the ground beside a pack, idly looking over each one before deciding to uncork the largest. Without so much as a warning, he poured the contents of it onto Alicia's wound.

The effect was immediate.

She writhed in pain for a few moments, wailing as she let go of the glove in her teeth. All the while clutching at the burn with her free hand.

"Down, lad. Is it too much for an old man to ask that younglings follow him in his own house these days?" the man barked, having noticed Welkin stand, "The burn will sting for a few days yet, but it won't rot away, and the lass is no worse off with the potion on her,"

"Potion?" queried the tank commander, tilting his head, "She needs medical care!"

"I am as qualified as any to treat wounds. I would also suggest that you watch your tone, lad. You break into my house, destroy half the walls, and I have just treated this lassie who happens to be with you for some damned burns. Is it not too much for an old man to ask that you treat him with some respect?"

"Welkin, it's alright. It doesn't hurt so much now," groaned Alicia, slowly sitting up, "I guess he's not an enemy,"

"The lass is speaking some sense!" laughed the man, though he soon returned to his dour mood, "Yes, I am not your enemy. Now, I suppose that you two have some fairly interesting tales to tell. You appear to have walked through some rough roads, for folks so young. Do entertain old Joric Salve-hands with some tales, for I have not heard a good story for many a day!"


	2. 02 - Ascetic of the Wilds

The small, ruined stone house that they had all gathered in offered hardly any protection to the fierce snowstorm outside. A large hole had been blasted into its stone walls, courtesy of the tremendous Ragnite-powered blast that had come from Ghirlandaio and seemingly carried across into this strange world that they had wandered unwittingly into.

A strange world indeed. And the only doorway that existed to lead back lay in smouldering pieces on the ground, still faintly glowing with power.

"So, you are telling me that _my_ portal somehow opened a doorway to your world? And that you escaped destruction - with her in tow, no less - by a hair's breadth?" the old man growled, turning the coals in the shattered fireplace with the tip of his staff, "Stendarr's beard! Fortunate indeed, lad. And the wee lass here as well,"

"That's about right. Sorry about your...house,"

"Don't mention it, lad. Ain't much of a house to begin with,"

A soft sneeze interrupted the two of them. There, sitting as close to the fire as was possible without burning herself, was Alicia; sniffling as she tried to stem the constant dripping from her nose. A fine coat of frost was visible on the back of her headscarf as her trembling hands were held out toward the flames. Though Joric had given them each a thick bear pelt to wrap around their bodies, the freezing air still bit to the bone – and it could be safely said that the short standard-issue skirt of the Gallian summer uniform did not offer any protection towards the cold.

Summer uniform. And yet it was snowing outside. Perhaps they were in a land far to the south of Europa?

"Ah, Joric – if you don't mind me asking," Welkin spoke, scratching his head, "Where is this?"

Joric narrowed an eye at him, picking out a strong-smelling leaf that he had been chewing on from his teeth. Sighing, he threw the leaf into the fireplace.

"If, by that, you mean this house; this is my late wife's humble abode," he replied, staring intently at the rapidly burning leaf, "She was adamant about living here, despite my pleas to have her join me at Windstad Manor. Alas, one winter, she did not come to visit me..."

He looked wistfully at the skeleton before the desk, and stood up. An extra bear pelt he draped over its shoulders – stroking its shoulder blade wistfully, no less - as though it were still capable of feeling!

Alicia gasped as she realised whose bones lay seated in the chair. "I...I'm sorry to hear that, Joric,"

"Don't be, lass. I have made my peace many years ago. It would be a dishonour to weep for the fallen long past their deaths. Should you not be resting at this time?" he growled at her, at which point Alicia shrank back under the cover of her bear pelt. "My apologies. I did not intend to sound so threatening,"

"It must have been hard to let her go,"

"Hard? You call letting her go _hard? _If she ordered me to kill the Emperor back then, I would do it, my Legion and my healer's oath be damned!" he exclaimed, slamming the tip of his staff on the floor, "It was beyond _hard_, lass. Enough of this prying. I have some questions of my own. It strikes me as odd, how similar our tongues are. Such clothing I have never seen before, and I assure you that I have travelled almost to the ends of the world and back. And yet, I can understand what you speak; and, as we have been conversing for a while now, I have little doubt that you are at least capable of understanding what I speak. Surely, this is no mere coincidence. Where from do you hail?"

"We...We're from Gallia,"

"Gallia? I cannot say that I have heard of such a place. Perhaps beyond the bounds of Tamriel this place must lie. Perhaps when I return to the College of Winterhold I may yet be able to discover some texts upon it,"

Silence greeted Alicia when she coughed to gain Joric's attention. The man seemed to rival Welkin at being able to completely ignore everything that didn't interest him at all. Yawning, she held a bundle of furs closer to herself, feeling a sense of warmth and comfort that she had not had for a very, very long time indeed as she drifted off to sleep.

A few hours passed, the only noise in the room the crackling of the warm fireplace and the shuffling of parchment. Joric sat beside the fireplace, a thick dusty tome in his hand. Tentatively, Welkin moved to take a scroll that had been long put aside. Checking and cleaning weapons _does_ get dull after the fifth time around.

"Ask before you take, lad," grumbled Joric, glaring at the young tank commander, "Some of these scrolls and tomes possess dark powers. Some of which may be dangerous for the untrained eye. This one, however, you may read. It contains the history of our Empire,"

A somewhat thinner book landed at Welkin's feet. The gold lettering on its front...the black text inside...they seemed familiar.

Too familiar.

"This writing...it's the same as that in Barious..." Welkin whispered, "Alicia. Alicia? Wake up!"

"She will be asleep for a few more hours yet. No curative of mine shall have the patient walking around while they are wounded,"

The woman was fast asleep, clutching a bundle of furs close to her for warmth as she snored softly. Sighing defeatedly, Welkin turned towards Joric, expecting the man to be engrossed in his books again.

But the man was standing up and alert. There was an unmistakable glimmer of polished steel under his robes, and a pitch-black blade was in his other hand. He crouched and walked towards the doorway, staff ablaze with blue flames. He sniffed the air once, and promptly wrinkled his nose, as though there were some foul stench on the wind.

"Lad, it appears that we are not alone here. Arm yourself, and keep that lass safe. Be ready for anything that may happen,"

A faint knock sounded on the door. Once. Twice.

"Is somebody out there?" called out Joric, pushing the door open with the tip of his staff.

Immediately, an axe descended on where his head would have been had he opened it himself. A blow from a heavy warhammer following closely behind smashed the flimsy wooden door to splinters. A towering blond man stomped in, wielding the weapon in one hand as though it weighed less than a feather. Two equally large women followed closely behind, axes in hand.

Welkin held his pistol to bear against the man, though they seemed to pay attention only to Joric. They seemed to be all part of the same army – cloaks of darkest midnight blue on what appeared to be a padded leather vest over a tattered suit of chain-mail, a black bear's head dyed on its front. An unpleasant stench washed over the house as they advanced on Joric, as though they had never washed in weeks.

"So, weeks of searching, and we've finally found you, old man," sneered the bull-like soldier, lifting his warhammer from the wreckage of the door, "Ulfric will be most pleased to hear of your death,"

"It is most unwise to threaten your betters, lad. Return to your master, and inform him that if he wishes to challenge me, he should do so on the battlefield," Joric calmly retorted, raising his sword, "Assassins are the tools of honourless, gutless cowards. I had thought better of him,"

Steel clashed with steel as the warhammer-wielding brute vaulted the hammer over his head, the old man's sword barely able to deflect the tremendous weapon in time. A second blow struck the blade, sending the dented sword skittering harmlessly across the stone floor. A third swing would have crushed Joric's skull, if he had not swiftly rolled to one side upon the ground, his shoulder taking the hit with a sickening crack. Welkin's pistol barked three times, one of the shots piercing the brute's shoulder and grazing his neck; though the man simply shrugged off the wounds and continued to advance on Joric, a manic glint in his eyes.

"Oh, so the old man has a bit of life left in him!" laughed the brute, lifting the hammer from the cracked floor.

"This old man has no intention of going to Sovngarde anytime soon, foolish child. Drop your weapons and I shall let you be off on your way,"

"I don't think so. What, you're going to stop _my_ hammer from smashing your head in? With words?"

"Words can kill, lad. Something that you would do well to remember. FUS RO DAH!"

It was as though a cannon had fired within the room, with its backblast directed towards the three assassins. All were lifted off the ground, screaming as they were hurled across the room by some tremendous force.

A sickening crack resounded through the room, and the assassins slumped to the ground, twitching; three perfect outlines of their forms branded into the stone walls behind, a faint trickle of blood dripping from the backs of their heads.

"W-What was that?" stammered Welkin, letting his pistol fall out of his hand.

"A wee bit of ancient magic. Knowing a few words of power can do a man a whole lot of good..." Joric replied. He tapped the closest assassin's head with his staff, smiling when there came no response, "Or a lot of harm. Welkin, was it, lad? I shall need your aid with binding these fellows so that they cannot escape,"

"But...your shoulder..."

"It would take much more than a petty warhammer to damage the ancient cuirass beneath these robes. I do wish the same could be said for my sword,"

He sighed as he bent down to collect the now-bent blade from the ground. It was a miracle the hammer did not shatter the sword in two; the metal had warped almost beyond recognition, resembling an overly large lockpick than a properly forged blade. Casting the useless weapon into the fireplace, he drew a small steel dagger from his belt, flicking it idly against his beard.

"Come on, then. These soldiers will not bind themselves. Take this knife and cut away what leather you need from their armour. They won't need it any more, not when they're imprisoned,"

No sooner had they bound the three would-be assassins with leather cut from their own armour did Joric start to search through the satchels that the assassins wore upon their belts. Various coins and items came clattering to the floor as he haphazardly emptied each pocket, seemingly searching for something. At long last, after perhaps the fifth pink-coloured potion fell to the floor beside an untold number of dirt-stained coins, he shook his head and dropped the satchel that he had emptied.

"Nothing of use within those. Except for this; catch, lad," he spoke, tossing a finely-crafted steel dagger towards Welkin, who promptly jumped as the weapon landed beside his foot, "A proper man should have a blade upon his person at all times. Remember that a man's honour is all he has, and all he shall ever need,"


	3. 03 - Undying Embers

Cold. An intense, bitter cold.

Was this the afterlife, then? She had not been told of anything. Not by the priests of the Yggdist church, nor by the researchers in that dreaded research facility that she had spent her childhood.

The incessant howling of the wind and the stench of burning flesh was unbearable. Slowly, Selvaria forced herself to her knees, biting her lip as she struggled to ignore the pain that lanced through her scorched skin. Her Imperial officer's uniform was draped in tatters over her body, black ribbons of burned silk offering little protection against the cold.

Numerous men and women had been piled up about her, their glassy, unseeing eyes an all-too-familiar sight. A platform seemingly made of wood logs supported all of them, with a select few impaled upon wooden pikes. All were covered in outlandish, ancient armour; ring-mail of metal, overlaid by scales of burnished leather. Draped about the shoulders of each was a long tattered cloak of blue. Though she did not recognise the emblem stitched into each, Selvaria could tell that these men and women were soldiers. Captured and executed, or defeated in battle, perhaps.

Soldiers for what, or for whom? She staggered to her feet, casting a glance left and right. There were other soldiers on the far side of the platform, singing drunkenly while they downed numerous bottles of drinks. The leather skirts that they wore – one could have mistaken them for women with a very strange sense of dress, had it not been for their thick, hairy legs. One of them held a torch, pouring the contents of a larger barrel onto the wooden platform.

Selvaria's eyes widened as she realised what the platform was for. Gritting her teeth, she dragged herself away from the pyre. Her war sabre, gifted by His Grace, was nowhere to be seen. But in times of desperation, she could not afford to be refined nor particular about what she wielded. Seizing a sword from the nearest corpse, she stumbled over the edge of the pyre, coughing when the bitter taste of blood-soaked soil greeted her lips. She soon staggered to her feet, the blade trailing unsteadily behind her.

The torch had been thrown upon the pyre, and the small flame that had started upon the other side of the platform soon turned into a raging inferno. What precious cover she had under the shroud of shadow disappeared; and sure enough, a few of the soldiers that had been drinking began to shout indistinctly and brandish their weapons at her threateningly. Or at least, as threatening as a mere man could appear to be.

One had been particularly foolish, loosing an arrow towards her. Batting aside the projectile with the flat of the sword, she continued to advance toward them.

She did not know who they were, or which army they served. Not one person would get between her and His Grace. Not while she still breathed, and her heart still pumps the Valkyrian blood burning in her veins.

Of what little of the Blue Flame she could conjure, it would be more than enough to slay these unworthy fools. They cowered and stepped backwards as she advanced towards them, the tip of the sword dragging behind her.

One by one, they found their courage and charged towards her. Each fell to the ground, their throats slashed wide open. She had to admit, they possessed more backbone than half of the Imperial Army's recruits. If only her own soldiers were as brave, the battle for Gallia should have concluded months ago.

"Pathetic. Is that all that they have to offer?" muttered Selvaria, wiping the blade on one of their leather skirts. The sword that she had picked up could hardly be considered sharp; even a wooden bat may have been sharper. Nevertheless, it was still sharper than any of the others that she had found on the bodies of these skirt-wearing men.

The howling of the freezing wind over the crackling noise of the pyre behind her reminded her of the other, more pressing problem. She was not dead, that was for certain; but as to where she was, she had not the faintest idea. She needed to return to His Grace – but to do so, she would need to survive first. And that meant not freezing in this icy wasteland that some seemingly had chosen to live in – her tattered silks would have to be replaced later.

The fur-lined armour that the fallen on the pyre wore appeared to be suitable. Grunting, she pulled the nearest of the female corpses away from the burning pile, putting out the flames on the edges of its armour with a few quick stamps of her boot.

"Urgh. Have they never washed?" Selvaria muttered, as she stripped pieces of armour from the corpse. The thickly-padded leather stank of putrid sweat and stale beer; and if she was not mistaken, a rather large amount of dried blood coated the chains beneath, where the steel rings had split under some blow. She cringed a little when more than a few fleas struggled to climb away from the frozen fur boots that she had removed. Fortunately, the heavy leather gloves were free of such vermin – though they still thoroughly reeked.

The suit ill fitted her, the leather vest being far too tight for her size; the chainmail beneath hung loosely below her waist, about a foot too long for her and much too broad of girth. Still, it was not something that could not be fixed somewhat with a sturdy belt, one of which she retrieved from another body. Fixing the sword to its hanging-hook on the belt, Selvaria stumbled towards the camp that the strange soldiers had erected. Perhaps there was something to be found inside. Perhaps in the largest tent.

Peering carefully inside, she saw that there was a lone soldier inside the largest tent. If his silver-crested helmet and gilt armour was any indication, he was likely a higher-ranking grunt; perhaps even an officer. A large map of some sort he pored over, studded with flags and littered with wooden figurines; muttering to himself, oblivious to her presence as she crept inside, blade ready to strike.

"Don't move. Hands in the air, and turn slowly around,"

He gasped as he found the point of a blade driven against the small of his back. Without a choice, he lifted his arms and walked about on the spot. The stench of the long-unwashed armour forced the man to crinkle his nose as he did so; apparently an all-too-familiar scent for him. His eyes grew wide as they gazed upon her form, and he stumbled backwards. Whether in fear, or in shock, she would not know; nor would the opinions of such an unworthy man matter to her.

"What in Oblivion are you? Some form of walking corpse wearing Stormcloak gear?" gasped the officer, moving backwards as Selvaria advanced upon him.

A walking corpse. A truly _charming_ description, to be sure – she would have to remember that one for later.

"If I was truly a corpse, I would be unable to speak. Who are you?"

"Legate Constantius Tituleius. Fourth Imperial Legion,"

Selvaria raised an eyebrow. A legate. Of some empire.

There was a book that she had read about the history of the Empire that she served. About its predecessor, almost two thousand years ago. This...rank of his...seemed familiar.

"A legate...an officer, then? You have also mentioned an Imperial Legion. What empire do you serve?"

The look that the legate made towards her would have given even her a laughing fit, if it were not for the dire nature of her situation. She was well and truly on foreign soil, without soldiers to command or supplies to speak of; and likely no chance in the near future to acquire reinforcements from His Grace.

"You're wearing Stormcloak armour, in the middle of this war – and you're telling me that you don't even know the name of the Empire?" croaked the man, disbelief evident in his scowl, "Where in Oblivion have you been for the past year?"

"A battlefield far removed from here, it seems. None of the names that you have spoken are familiar to myself. Nor do I particularly care. If that is a map upon the table, then I shall require it. Move to the wall, hold still, and remain silent. Resist, and your life is forfeit,"

Reluctantly, the legate shuffled towards the rear of his tent, standing beside a drawer. Selvaria watched him stand beside a low table, upon which a steel dagger lay unsheathed. His eyes strayed towards the weapon, his fingers creeping ever close towards its handle.

"Do not even think about it," she spoke, in a dangerous and low voice, "I have already killed what few men you have outside. Staining the snow with your blood would not bother me in the slightest. Face the wall, and if you turn for even the smallest of moments, I shall slit your throat,"

Folding the map as gracefully as she could with one hand, Selvaria departed the tent silently. In truth, there was no need to spill more blood than she needed to on foreign soil; whatever conflict these men had with each other in these strange lands, it was for them alone to decide. Looking over her shoulder, the legate had wisely decided to stay put inside the tent. A fortunate turn of events, as killing an officer would undoubtedly draw unwanted attention to herself.

The winds outside bit deeply onto the burned skin on her face, reminding her of the injuries sustained in her use of the Final Flame. She cursed herself for being too weak, too foolish to carry a supply of Ragnaid on her person. So weak that she could not tolerate the simple blue light of atomised ragnite! What would His Grace think of her, if he saw her cowering from those harmless aid canisters that all of her soldiers carried!

Nevertheless, Selvaria decided that she needed to cleanse the burns she had suffered. Despite her Valkyrian blood providing sufficient healing for most wounds, the image of those scarred by her shocktroopers' flamethrowers did disturb her somewhat. No, it would not do to have such unsightly blemishes when she returned by the future Emperor's side; these wounds must be cleansed immediately. Those on her arms and legs were bad enough, but at least those could be covered in a great many ways.

A tent nearby stank of blood and decay, and numerous blood-soaked rags lay heaped upon a basket outside. Whatever 'medical' treatment these savages deemed suitable, she would not know - nor would she like to know, judging by the shrieks of agony coming from within, between the rending screeches of some metal implement on bone.

"Valkyrur's blood, I should give my medics far more credit for their bravery," Selvaria whispered to herself with disgust, inching closer to a cauldron over open flames outside. Water bubbled furiously within.

Antiseptic it was not, nor even dreaded Ragnaid, but it would do. Seizing a nearby bucket, she drained half its contents. It was far too hot to be used, but a few handfuls of snow and ice soon chilled the boiling water to a comfortable warmth. She bit back a hiss as the first splash of water washed away ash and burnt skin on her hands, revealing the pink flesh beneath.

But it was not the pain that caused her to truly scream.

The clouds parted as she bent to wash her face clean. The bright curtain of dancing colours above soon flooded the camp with light.

And in that light, she saw her reflection in the still water of the bucket.

Her red eyes stared back at her face - was that truly her face? And not some demon that had come from those ancient Valkyrur tales? She reached up to touch the silvery locks of hair that draped her shoulders, now dull and ash-grey. The soft, supple skin that she had always taken care to maintain upon her face was gone, replaced by black, charred scales; flakes of which fell to the ground with every movement, blood seeping from open wounds beneath. A yellowish ooze dripped constantly from the corners of her bloodshot eyes, matching that which fell from her scorched nose.

"What," she croaked in disbelief, letting her hand fall limply to her side, "Have I become?"

* * *

><p>AN

I'm quite surprised that people are actually reading this. Well, thanks for reading, folks. Hope you enjoy it.

ArcturusWolf, signing out.


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